An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 6


We woke up to snow this morning.

Actually, I woke up to The Kid screaming, “MOMMY! MOMMY! OH MY GOD!” because that is how The Kid feels about snow, especially when there’s been no discussion of any sort of snow event in the Tri-State area. A morning full of fluffy, cold, white surprise and the potential to use the sled, which is precisely what he and his friend have been doing since 8:03 this morning, is cause for serious celebration.

I, on the other hand, am ensconced in my kitchen with a hot cup of coffee, some Thelonious Monk, and paperwork everywhere. There’s the admissions documents for The Kid’s new private school lying next to the paperwork necessary to change my name back to my birth name which is underneath all the apartment listings I’m looking at later today and all of that is next to poems poems poems everywhere because I printed a bunch of my writing in different fonts as I contemplate self-publishing a book of my words.

And in the middle of all of that is my laptop where I’m working on this great scene between Dutch and Juma that is full of death and blood and gore but also these quiet moments of incredible tenderness and love because that is how D+J flow – beauty and horror wrapped around each other in an endless cycle that is both exhilarating and exhausting to think about and write and live.

But I digress because really I’m just stopping through to give y’all another dose of Amal and Jackson and Andrew before I turn back to my #NaNoWriMo efforts.

And in case you need a refresher or are here for the first time and don’t know who the hell Amal and Jackson and Andrew are, here are parts  ONE TWO THREE FOUR and FIVE for your Sunday morning enjoyment.

Be magic.


Like sandpaper rubbed along a curve of wood to smooth out the creases and cracks and make everything beautiful, his voice, low and rough, curled around my throat, kissed my secret spots, and made my pussy throb.

“Not that it is any of your business,” I replied as I smiled into my glass and for a second, forgot who I was, where I was, and who I was with, purring so low Mr. Downtown would have to remain in my personal space to hear my words meant for his ears only, “but no, I have not fucked my professor.”

“Then David Andersen is a bigger idiot than I originally thought,” he laughed, seeming pleased about something he intended to keep to himself as he continued to verbally fuck me from behind, “because if you were in my class.”

“You are assuming he rejected me,” I interrupted as I turned his way, an eyebrow cocked in his direction, intending to playfully dress him down for his false impressions, losing my breath and forgetting myself in the face of his rugged beauty. The dark eyes, sun-kissed skin, stubble-covered jaw, full mouth; in combination on him, it was too much all at once and I gasped low as my lungs heaved, my capillaries constricted, and my breath tangled around itself in an effort to escape my parted lips. 

“Fucking god, you are perfection,” he settled in next to me, maintaining a polite distance but close enough I could feel his heat, his breath when he neared, his everything and it was heaven. And although Jackson and I were perfect together, the closest of friends, the most intimate of lovers, something about this man, this particular man with a voice that did things to me and a smirk that made me want to kiss it right off, made me reckless and restless and yearning for wickedness I had no idea I desired. 

I didn’t care about the party or who was watching us or much of anything besides him, this alluring, sensual, dirty-mouthed Mr. Downtown. He studied my parted lips and licked his own, the first time his body seemed to betray his cool exterior, then sucked in a breath and hissed, “goddamned perfection.”  

“Do not try and distract me with your pretty words, mister,” I teased in an effort to diffuse some of the tension between us.

“But they elicit such sensual sounds,” he came back at me, his voice liquid sex and again my breath caught, “just like that,” and he grinned because he was so very bad and he was so very right – all of his words did things to me. 

“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted,” although there was nothing rude about anything he did, “Professor Andersen did not reject me, mostly because I haven’t even offered myself,” and I paused and he watched my mouth and waited and good lord, he looked like a man starved, “yet.”

He tore his gaze from my mouth and met mine and I don’t know what he saw but whatever it was, I got the feeling he liked it. 

“Taking your time, are you?”

“I am,” I cocked my head to the side and smiled.

“Reeling him in?”

“Something like that.”

“Teasing him a little here and a little there,” and then he leaned close, “so before he knows it, our studious David Andersen is little more than a raging hard on every time he contemplates anything remotely related to you,” and he gave me a quick once-over, “and that beautiful ass.”

My cheeks heated and my pussy flooded as the words beautiful and ass crossed his lips and entered the ether between us. I touched my throat and his eyes rested on my hand and suddenly every inch of my skin was aflame, so much so I wondered whether in the dim light of the loft he could see the flush ravishing my body. 

“Yes,” I finally mustered, “I like to offer a taste, some temptation tinged with a promise, to keep his mind racing and his thoughts focused on me,” and I cocked my brow, “and my beautiful ass,” and this time it was his turn to groan.

I heard it and he knew I heard it. 

He rubbed his jaw and his sleeve fell back to reveal intricate designs that disappeared down his arm and I found myself wanting to peel back all of his clothes and learn every line of ink on his body and just like that, I shook my head and righted myself. I had to stop this. 

I was Amal Warrier Naipaul and certainly, I wrote the dirtiest, filthiest raunch I could conjure, but that was fantasy. No where in my reality was there mention of a dashing stranger with a voice like sex coming along to flip my carefully constructed perfect existence on its head. And yet.

I glanced around the room, seeking that gorgeous brown skin and deep silk voice, the perfectly lined hair, the white teeth. 


Where the fuck was he?


I turned back to Mr. Downtown despite knowing I shouldn’t because he was six feet four inches of wiry fuckable trouble, and I watched him speak the word “breathe” and for some reason I did. I breathed and I listened and I calmed and what had been racing a million miles a minute, slowed to a more manageable pace, something I could exist within and without and feel somewhat again, myself.

“And then answer for me,” he continued and I waited and wondered what would he do to me next, “are you always such a control freak?”

And just like that all the sexy and lust and desire that was floating in the air between us, just waiting for us to do something with it, all of that disappeared. Because unbeknownst to Mr. Downtown, that one phrase – control freak – irked me like no other.

Even though I find humans so boring, I rather love Andrew and his filthy mouth.

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